


I'll Be Your First, If You Be My Last.

by fourfreedoms



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: All Roads Lead to Canon, Different Beginnings, First Time, High School, M/M, falling in forever love, not quite AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be fair, Patrick really falls in love in a shitty playground, but he supposes it starts in a 7-eleven parking lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Your First, If You Be My Last.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on hypemachine all day, every day at work, and one day Steve Aoki's remix of Bonnie McKee's frankly horribad trash pop song "American Girl" came on, and I was like WHAT. THIS IS LIKE PATRICK KANE IN A SONG. I tend to have these thoughts a lot. Poor citybrights gets a lot of all-caps chats about it while she's off attempting to do smart person things. 
> 
> And THAT is how THIS exists. I am sorry I'm not sorry. The usual suspects were involved in making this story happen: rosekay, citybrights, and countess von boobs. Also, extra fond thanks go to my rl best friend who's applying for dissertation fellowships and took a moment out of his busy schedule to add all the commas I was missing back in and to make fun of me for having Patrick think his orgasms were magic. 
> 
> If there is anybody who would be mystified and amazed by the magic power of orgasms it would be Patrick Kane. ALAS. Magic did not make it into this draft.

The punch is foul--its constituents a syrupy can of frozen Minute Maid pink lemonade, an assortment of cheap hard liquor, and freezer-burned ice dumped in at the last moment. There's nothing else left. A forest of haphazard plastic bottles of Dubra and Popov line the counters of the kitchen, and cardboard cases of Natty and PBR sit empty on the floor. It’s barely gone full dark outside, and Patrick is not drunk enough to make any of this acceptable. 

At some point, what felt like only moments after his arrival, the AC quit and between the summer humidity and the bodies milling through the house in an alarming crush, it's reached Sarahan levels on the thermostat. The party's a total disaster, and when it gets busted by the cops, Patrick isn't exactly crying about it.

What he is is a minor with an open container, standing on the porch with the few other harrassed souls who have managed to extricate themselves from the house, facing what feels like the entire Buffalo police force in the front yard.

The dude next to him, a tall motherfucker with a too serious face, swears under his breath, and tosses a cup of flat beer over the porch rail. Patrick laughs, a sharp shocked noise, and the guy raises his eyebrows and shrugs.

“You up to hop a few fences?” Patrick asks him as they watch the officers converge on the place in seeming slow motion. He’s already moving, swinging himself up over the porch railing and then vaulting over the fence. He only just registers that the guy is following behind. 

Patrick’s small and swift, and he’s used to treating Buffalo as his playground when he’s not in Michigan. He’s not entirely sure his cup-tossing friend will be able to keep up, but after landing in their third yard he accepts that the guy can hang. 

“I think we’ve gone far enough…” Patrick finally says when they’re two blocks south of the party, and one block over, and he’s breathing hard. The guy barely looks winded. Patrick rolls his eyes. 

“I’ve never seen you before,” Patrick says, “you’re not from here?”

“Nope,” the guy says. 

Patrick blinks at him and shrugs, opening the gate and gesturing the guy through with a satirical arm wave. 

“Jonathan, by the way,” he says as he passes Patrick. 

“Huh?” 

He looks at Patrick over his shoulder and rolls his eyes. “My name?”

“Right,” Patrick replies as they set off down the street. “I’m Patrick.” 

Jonathan laughs. “Yeah, I know, Patrick Kane.” 

“Heard about me have you?” Patrick says with a leer. “I am pretty awesome. At least in this one horse town. All the ladies want my dick.” 

Jonathan gives him a skeptical look. “For what exactly?” 

“My slick moves,” Patrick says, busting out a quick dance move, and nearly tripping over the uneven sidewalk. 

“Man, I know who you are because I play hockey,” Jonathan says with a long-suffering sigh. 

Patrick takes another look. A good look. The serious eyes, the solidity of his shoulders, the incredulity hovering at the corners of his mouth. Patrick watched the draft with a kind of single-minded compulsion bordering on obsession, but the thought of the number 3 pick, Jonathan Toews, just showing up at a party in a place that Patrick considers largely outside his life of hockey? Unexpected, at the very least. 

“Sorry, sorry, I just didn’t put it together,” Patrick says in a rush and then after a pause. “Wait, you know who I am?”

“I’ve seen your tape, man,” Jonathan says. “Those were some beautiful goals. I’m gonna be playing you in like, six months at world juniors.”

Patrick shrugs. Obviously he digs the win at worlds. It’s been good to prove that after going in the 5th round of the OHL draft he has what it takes. Obviously he’s already made a commitment to the Knights, but there’s still this tiny knot of fear whenever he thinks about the fact that he’s throwing away his NCAA eligibility on a gamble that might not pay off.

He knows his silence is rude. He should say something, especially after Jonathan gave him that compliment. They’re just walking along as darkness finally begins to set in and the residential neighborhood gives way to bigger streets and clusters of chain stores. When he sneaks a look at Jonathan’s profile, he doesn’t seem bothered by the silence. 

“You’re at UND, right?”

Johnny nods. “Yeah, going back this season. I had a good camp, but I’m not where I need to be yet.” Answering a question Patrick hadn’t even asked yet. He’s not sure why, but the response comforts him. The draft isn’t the end all be all, still more work comes after that. And if he goes fifth or fiftieth, well, that’s just how it has to be. 

A 7-eleven comes into view up ahead, and Patrick knocks Johnny’s arm with his elbow. “Yo, I know that party was a bust, but you want to pick something up?”

Jonathan gives him a look. “I’m legal to drink at home - I don’t have a fake.” 

“Yeah well, I do,” Patrick replies. 

Jonathan asks, “Why’d you run from that party?”

Patrick coughs. “The fake is good enough to fool a 7-eleven clerk, but I don’t want to try it out on the cops. Also, it says I’m from Vermont and I’m 6’1.” 

“What? Didn’t you ask for it to be made with your specifications? I mean, nobody would believe that,” Jonathan tells him, beginning to crack up. 

“I _know_ that.” Patrick glares at him. He had been kind of drunk when he’d had the fake made, so he hadn’t really been thinking the 6’1 thing through. “So? Yea or nay?” 

Jonathan shakes his head, the incredulous smile coming back in full force. “Go for it, I guess.” 

Patrick selects a bottle of Dubra under Jonathan’s disapproving gaze. “That stuff is practically undrinkable!” 

“No, no, I’ve got this all figured out,” he tells him. “You like slurpees?” 

Jonathan blinks at him. “Yes? I mean - I don’t dislike them?” 

“Blue raspberry, cherry, or cola flavored?” 

Jonathan still looks suspicious. “Cherry, I guess.” 

Patrick rolls his eyes. Predictable. He hands Jonathan the vodka and goes to get himself a slushie with cherry and blue raspberry swirled together. For Jonathan, he makes a plain old cherry one, building it up so high that when he depresses the plastic lid onto the cup, cherry-flavored ice runs down the side. He snags it with a finger and brings it to his mouth before handing it to Jonathan. 

“Gross,” Jonathan says. 

Patrick rolls his eyes again. “You’re not going to put your mouth on the lid, dude.” 

The cashier accepts the ridiculous fake Vermont license without comment, barely blinking even when Jonathan insists on paying for both slurpees after Patrick’s already gotten everything rung up. 

“You’re so weird - it’s like five dollars,” he says, outside in the back parking lot. He sits down on the cracked curb with the slurpee and the bottle of vodka. 

“You totally can’t tell it’s shitty vodka when you mix it in with this,” he says, liberally pouring into the big gulp cup and then holding out his hand for Jonathan’s to do the same. 

“You’re going to kill us,” Jonathan says, watching Patrick tip the last of the bottle into his cherry slurpee and then twirl his straw to stir it in. 

Patrick laughs. “You shouldn’t drink a whole Big Gulp anyway. If you’re tempted to finish it, you know this way lies charcoal and stomach pumping.” 

“Joy,” Jonathan says dryly, but he holds out his hand to take the slurpee back while Patrick discards of the now empty Dubra bottle in the dumpster. Jonathan takes an experimental sip, eyebrows arched into his hairline like he’s expecting it to jump up and bite him. Patrick sees the exact moment it hits his mouth from those same eyebrows and Jonathan’s eyes drop to the cup in surprise. 

“Told you,” Patrick says triumphantly, taking a hard suck on his straw and then grinning. “So where are you staying? Do you need to go home at some point?” 

The night’s been pretty low key so far. There isn’t a lot going on, and Patrick barely knows most of the people he went to school with, what with being gone so much and for so long. The friends that he went to that party with were lost somewhere in a different part of the house. He’s sure they’re fine, off at the next house party. But Patrick is disconnected from all that. He could text them maybe, ask them where they got up to next, but he’s also not sure how they would feel about him dragging a hockey buddy along. These are the same kids he played with when he was little, and now Patrick is where he is, and they aren’t.

Johnny’s got kind of an edge to him, a dry sarcastic edge that Patrick likes. He doesn’t want to leave him behind, just to save his friend’s feelings. He supposes that some bars might not give a shit about Patrick’s crappy fake, but it’s not like he’ll be able to get Jonathan in, even if his sober expression and height might make them forget to card him.

Jonathan nudges him, breaking him free of his thoughts. “I’m staying with some cousins. Getting arrested wouldn’t have been cool, but I’m good to do whatever.” 

Patrick breathes out and shrugs, gesturing expansively with his Big Gulp cup. “Do you wanna just walk?” 

Jonathan’s face slowly resolves into a smile. “Yeah, that’s fine.” 

Patrick takes another long sip of his slurpee. 

Jonathan snorts. “Your mouth is blue.” 

“I’m sure it’s a good look on me,” Patrick replies sagely. Jonathan’s own mouth is shockingly red from the cherry ice, lips bruised looking like he’s been kissing for hours. It makes Patrick feel a little strange, watching Jonathan casually bite at his lower lip. 

They walk in silence, drifting down the softly lit streets, drifting away from the strip malls and back towards the wealthier parts of town. Patrick’s not drunk, but he’s in the victorious buzz phase where anything and everything seems possible. 

“I am going to blow them out of the water this season,” he says fiercely, in the middle of nowhere. 

Jonathan looks over at him, considering. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t, you had a great season last year.” 

“I mean it, man, I gotta show ‘em I can do this,” Patrick says, knowing he’s being a little too loud, a little too serious, but Jonathan seems to get it. He doesn’t know if the guy is so up on Patrick’s stats that he knows how low he went in the OHL draft, how few people were taking him seriously until Worlds happened, but either way, Jonathan doesn’t dismiss his fears with the oft heard ‘everything will be fine.’ 

He chews ponderously on his straw for a moment and then says to Patrick, “You know, the only people I’ve ever seen who can do what you do with the puck? They’re in the NHL. Where else would you go?” 

“God, I hope you’re right.” 

“I am,” he says firmly, so full of casual arrogance that Patrick can’t help laughing. After a moment, Jonathan joins him. They laugh until they’re rung out, stomachs hurting, gasping for breath. Patrick leans on Jonathan’s shoulder and Jonathan eyes him and then takes a deliberate sip of slurpee that sets Patrick off again, while Jonathan rolls his eyes. Patrick’s gratified to notice he’s drunk at least half of it. Lord only knows how much vodka that translates too, but they’re both walking easily, so they’re not too far into drunkeness yet. 

They turn down a street--a winding little road, thick with oak trees in full leaf and marked by only a few weak sodium lights. A slight breeze kicks up, rustling the leaves, and just as Patrick’s considering that he’ll remember how he feels in this moment, with Jonathan silent beside him, alcoholic slurpee in hand, for the rest of his life, Jonathan catches his wrist and tugs him in close. 

Patrick’s just about to ask him what the hell he’s up to, when Jonathan kisses him. A soft tentative brush of the lips that’s over before it really begins. Patrick lets go of his Big Gulp in surprise, the cup falling to the pavement and somehow remaining upright. 

Jonathan drops Patrick’s wrist and steps away. “Sorry, sorry, just couldn’t...help myself.” 

It’s dark, barely any light is filtering through the leaves of the tree and Patrick can’t read his expression at all, can only just judge how far away he is. He supposes he can be forgiven for crashing into Jonathan and making him rock back a step when he rushes in to kiss him a second time. 

Jonathan accepts his added weight easily, drawing him in tight, and aligning their mouths like they’ve been doing this forever. Patrick shivers, clutching at Jonathan’s biceps like he’s a lifeline. His lips are cool, slightly chapped, and unsurprisingly he tastes strongly of cherry flavoring. 

He’s a really good kisser. Patrick worries that he can’t possibly measure up. There haven’t been many opportunities for him, and he’s perpetually the youngest and smallest of his teammates when they go out, the last one to catch anybody’s eye. He’s done some things, probably more than a lot of other kids his age, but not often, and never with the same person. 

“Are you--are you--” he tries to say in between kisses, and Jonathan replies with “I don’t know. I don’t know what I am.” 

“We should go somewhere,” Patrick breathes, fingertips hooked into Jonathan’s shirt. 

“Yeah?” Jonathan asks, chuckling against Patrick’s mouth. “Like where?” 

There’s no way that Patrick can sneak Jonathan into his house, and he’s gonna bet wherever Jonathan’s staying is out too. The only thing he can come up with is a playground not far from here. It’s not exactly private, but it’s better than hanging out on a residential street, just waiting for somebody to walk their dog and come upon them. When Patrick suggests it, Jonathan shrugs and tells him to lead the way. 

They walk a foot apart, a palpable tension between them. By the time they come in view of the the little park, just offset from the road, grass making way to tanbark, Patrick’s so turned on and shaky with it he can barely breathe. He has to do something or he’ll die. He knows it. 

“Race you,” he cries and takes off running for the play structure. 

“What? Are you joking?” Jonathan calls after him. 

Patrick hits the tanbark first, but Jonathan remains only steps behind. 

Patrick shouts “Too slow, dude,” as he’s hauling himself up the last rung on one the ladders leading to the platform where the slides are, but Jonathan goes around the side and comes up via the steps near the monkey bars and beats him there. He snags Patrick’s waist as he tries to dodge by him to escape by one of the covered slides and they tumble back, barely missing falling straight into a low hanging bar. 

“That was a bad idea,” Patrick says weakly, unwilling to move from his position, sprawled in front of the mouth of the slide, half over Jonathan. 

Jonathan groans. “Drunk insulation,” he says. “Gonna be feeling this one tomorrow.” 

Patrick shifts against him, settling himself into a position he likes, chin resting on Jonathan’s chest. 

“Hi,” he says. 

Jonathan laughs. “Hey,” he says before curling his hand around the back of Patrick’s head and leaning up to kiss him. Patrick relaxes into him, letting Jonathan direct the pace. It seems stupid, but he likes the way Jonathan’s mouth feels against his, the way he’s slow and patient with his lips and tongue like it’s a project to get just right. It’s completely at odd with the urgency that Patrick feels building in his middle. 

“God, god, god,” he whispers when Jonathan pulls back, getting a little air. He can feel Jonathan hard against his middle and he knows he’s pushing his own erection rather insistently into Jonathan’s hip. 

“Yeah,” Jonathan says, nuzzling along Patrick’s cheek. 

He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to push it along, or if they’re just going to keep doing this. They’re completely out in the open on a play structure. He’s never had a lot of control over these situations. 

“Can you--do you--I’m not sure…” Patrick is a talker. He’s friendly. He likes people. He’s pretty quick on his feet. Right now, however, he feels totally out of his depth. All he knows is he wants to get Jonathan’s shirt off, feel his skin, get his hands on his dick. Yeah, and if that doesn’t give him pause, he doesn’t know what will. 

“C’mere,” Jonathan says, rolling them onto their sides. He gets Patrick’s jeans open and pulls him free of his boxers, pointedly licking the palm of his right hand. 

“Shit,” Patrick says, when Jonathan’s fist closes around him. He struggles to get with the program and get the fly on Jonathan’s shorts down.

“Easy,” Jonathan tells him, although he doesn’t know how he expects Patrick to listen to that when he’s drawing Patrick off nice and slow, making his eyes cross. 

He likes the way Jonathan breathes out when he finally gets his fingers past the thick denim and gets Jonathan’s dick in his hand. It’s hard figuring out where to coordinate arms and whether they should be looking into each other’s eyes or keeping them closed or pretending they’re not even in the same place, but Jonathan resolves that by leaning and kissing him again. 

Patrick’s been feeling it for too long, and Jonathan’s sure hand on his dick is just too much. He doesn’t last as long as he would like and he just barely manages to warn Jonathan that he’s about to shoot. The orgasm is good, but he’s also glad it’s out of the way, because he wants Jonathan to feel good. To feel as amazed and on fire as he does. 

“Ah, fuck,” Jonathan says, “you look…” he cuts himself off and shudders. Patrick has no idea how he can look anything other than blissed out and stupid, but Jonathan seems to like it. He tightens his hand around Patrick’s and speeds up his stroke.

“Like this,” he explains, squeezing in closer to kiss Patrick again. When he finally comes, it’s with a deep groan into Patrick’s mouth, stilling their combined hands on his cock.

They lay like that, until Jonathan separates them with a pained groan and throws his arm over his eyes. 

“What just happened?” Patrick asks, staring at Jonathan, watching the rising and falling of his chest slowly return to normal. They’re sticky and uncomfortable with jizz, lying halfway dressed and indecent under the stars on a rubberized platform in a play structure. 

Jonathan chuckles weakly. “I don’t know.” 

“I want to do it again,” Patrick tells him. “Tell me you want to do it again.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I want to do it again,” Jonathan replies. 

*

Patrick wakes up, early dawn light filtering down over him, his cheek pillowed on Jonathan’s shoulder, twisted into an improbable shape from where they’re lying halfway into the slide. He’s not sure when they fell asleep. He’s sweaty and sticky and exhausted, but somehow he still feels amazing. 

He’s not sure how many times he and Jonathan jerked off last night. At one point he even had his mouth on Jonathan’s dick. It was sloppy, and he couldn’t get Jonathan all the way there, but Jonathan had laughed breathlessly and told him it didn’t matter. That everything was fine and everything was perfect. Everything _was_ perfect, even given the lack of proper venue and supplies

He’s so overwhelmed with feelings it’s choking him up a little. 

“Hey,” Jonathan tells him, voice rusty and thick. He shifts underneath Patrick and then groans, discovering new aches and pains. 

“Hey,” Patrick replies, tentatively, trying to divine something from Jonathan’s impassive face. “So that was pretty dumb.” 

Jonathan shuts his eyes against the sun. “I dunno, I thought it was pretty freaking awesome.” 

Patrick grins and then slumps back over, his body protesting his every move. “God, I feel like I’ve been doing bag skate for a week.” 

“My back will never be the same,” Jonathan tells him and then says unexpectedly through a deep yawn, “I bet you’ll go number one.” 

Patrick blinks at him, not entirely sure he’s heard correctly. “What?” 

“In the draft,” Jonathan clarifies. He curls into a sitting position and looks a little ill. 

Patrick laughs with a slightly hysterical edge. “Dude, you are the only person who thinks that.” 

Jonathan rubs at his face and sighs. “Well, I’m the only one who’s right.” 

Patrick blushes. He should sock Jonathan and tell him to stop being a know-it-all. But something about the way that Jonathan is very frankly looking at him, just makes him swallow and nod. “Thanks, man.” 

Patrick walks Jonathan back to his cousin’s place in silence, exhaustion has set in so thoroughly conversation is beyond them, but when they reach the front steps, it all seems to have gone too fast, and Patrick wishes he'd said more. 

Jonathan sighs and says, “I’m leaving later today.” 

Patrick takes a breath. “Rough,” he says softly, and mostly to himself, eyes on his feet. Jonathan will go back to college and Patrick is finally heading to London to start his OHL season, and hockey is a small world. They’ll see each other again, but part of Patrick fears he’s letting go of something special. Jonathan knocks his arm and with a quick glance around to make sure there’s nobody to see, leans in to press a last and final kiss to Patrick’s surprised mouth. 

“Catch you at Worlds?” Jonathan asks as he pulls away, rubbing at his face. 

“Word up,” Patrick says, voice thick with emotion. Jonathan nods at him and then quietly heads up the steps and carefully unlocks the door. Patrick turns away before he’s fully inside, but when he looks back, Jonathan still stands in his doorway.

*

_I fell in love in a 7/11 parking lot_  
 _Sat on the curb drinking slurpees we mixed with alcohol_  
 _We talked about all our dreams and how we would show 'em all_

_I told him I got a plan and I'm gonna dominate_  
 _And I don't need any man to be getting in my way_  
 _But if you talk with your hands then we can negotiate_  
-Bonnie McKee

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, I think there will be more of this. I mean, we have to find out what happens to them at Worlds (spoiler: lots of porn, somebody's roommate getting sexiled, maybe everybody's roommate getting sexiled), and then next Draft Day. Johnny is probably like "YOU WENT FIRST, I WIN ALL THE BLOWJOBS" and Patrick is like, are you kidding, like I would bet against myself?
> 
> Just try to stop me.


End file.
